William Shakespeare - "Richard III"

Henry Beam Piper - "Ministry of Disturbance"

Edward Stratemeyer - "The Rover Boys in the Air"

G. A. Henty - "By England's Aid"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Coningsby

B >> Benjamin Disraeli >> Coningsby




'You are not hurt, then, sir?' she ventured to ask with a look that
expressed the infinite solicitude which her tongue did not venture to
convey.

'By no means, my good little girl;' and he extended his hand to her, which
she reverently bent over and embraced.




CHAPTER VII.


When Coningsby had returned to his grandfather's hotel that morning, it
was with a determination to leave Paris the next day for England; but the
accident to Lady Monmouth, though, as it ultimately appeared, accompanied
by no very serious consequences, quite dissipated this intention. It was
impossible to quit them so crudely at such a moment. So he remained
another day, and that was the day preceding Sidonia's fete, which he
particularly resolved not to attend. He felt it quite impossible that he
could again endure the sight of either Sidonia or Edith. He looked upon
them as persons who had deeply injured him; though they really were
individuals who had treated him with invariable kindness. But he felt
their existence was a source of mortification and misery to him. With
these feelings, sauntering away the last hours at Paris, disquieted,
uneasy; no present, no future; no enjoyment, no hope; really, positively,
undeniably unhappy; unhappy too for the first time in his life; the first
unhappiness; what a companion piece for the first love! Coningsby, of all
places in the world, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, encountered Sir
Joseph Wallinger and Edith.

To avoid them was impossible; they met face to face; and Sir Joseph
stopped, and immediately reminded him that it was three days since they
had seen him, as if to reproach him for so unprecedented a neglect. And it
seemed that Edith, though she said not as much, felt the same. And
Coningsby turned round and walked with them. He told them he was going to
leave Paris on the morrow.

'And miss Monsieur de Sidonia's fete, of which we have all talked so
much!' said Edith, with unaffected surprise, and an expression of
disappointment which she in vain attempted to conceal.

'The festival will not be less gay for my absence,' said Coningsby, with
that plaintive moroseness not unusual to despairing lovers.

'If we were all to argue from the same premises, and act accordingly,'
said Edith, 'the saloons would be empty. But if any person's absence would
be remarked, I should really have thought it would be yours. I thought you
were one of Monsieur de Sidonia's great friends?'

'He has no friends,' said Coningsby. 'No wise man has. What are friends?
Traitors.'

Edith looked much astonished. And then she said,

'I am sure you have not quarrelled with Monsieur de Sidonia, for we have
just parted with him.'

'I have no doubt you have,' thought Coningsby.

'And it is impossible to speak of another in higher terms than he spoke of
you.' Sir Joseph observed how unusual it was for Monsieur de Sidonia to
express himself so warmly.

'Sidonia is a great man, and carries everything before him,' said
Coningsby. 'I am nothing; I cannot cope with him; I retire from the
field.'

'What field?' inquired Sir Joseph, who did not clearly catch the drift of
these observations. 'It appears to me that a field for action is exactly
what Sidonia wants. There is no vent for his abilities and intelligence.
He wastes his energy in travelling from capital to capital like a King's
messenger. The morning after his fete he is going to Madrid.'

This brought some reference to their mutual movements. Edith spoke of her
return to Lancashire, of her hope that Mr. Coningsby would soon see
Oswald; but Mr. Coningsby informed her that though he was going to leave
Paris, he had no intention of returning to England; that he had not yet
quite made up his mind whither he should go; but thought that he should
travel direct to St. Petersburg. He wished to travel overland to
Astrachan. That was the place he was particularly anxious to visit.

After this incomprehensible announcement, they walked on for some minutes
in silence, broken only by occasional monosyllables, with which Coningsby
responded at hazard to the sound remarks of Sir Joseph. As they approached
the Palace a party of English who were visiting the Chamber of Peers, and
who were acquainted with the companions of Coningsby, encountered them.
Amid the mutual recognitions, Coningsby, was about to take his leave
somewhat ceremoniously, but Edith held forth her hand, and said,

'Is this indeed farewell?'

His heart was agitated, his countenance changed; he retained her hand amid
the chattering tourists, too full of their criticisms and their
egotistical commonplaces to notice what was passing. A sentimental
ebullition seemed to be on the point of taking place. Their eyes met. The
look of Edith was mournful and inquiring.

'We will say farewell at the ball,' said Coningsby, and she rewarded him
with a radiant smile.




CHAPTER VIII.


Sidonia lived in the Faubourg St. Germain, in a large hotel that, in old
days, had belonged to the Crillons; but it had received at his hands such
extensive alterations, that nothing of the original decoration, and little
of its arrangement, remained.

A flight of marble steps, ascending from a vast court, led into a hall of
great dimensions, which was at the same time an orangery and a gallery of
sculpture. It was illumined by a distinct, yet soft and subdued light,
which harmonised with the beautiful repose of the surrounding forms, and
with the exotic perfume that was wafted about. A gallery led from this
hall to an inner hall of quite a different character; fantastic,
glittering, variegated; full of strange shapes and dazzling objects.

The roof was carved and gilt in that honeycomb style prevalent in the
Saracenic buildings; the walls were hung with leather stamped in rich and
vivid patterns; the floor was a flood of mosaic; about were statues of
negroes of human size with faces of wild expression, and holding in their
outstretched hands silver torches that blazed with an almost painful
brilliancy.

From this inner hall a double staircase of white marble led to the grand
suite of apartments.

These saloons, lofty, spacious, and numerous, had been decorated
principally in encaustic by the most celebrated artists of Munich. The
three principal rooms were only separated from each other by columns,
covered with rich hangings, on this night drawn aside. The decoration of
each chamber was appropriate to its purpose. On the walls of the ball-room
nymphs and heroes moved in measure in Sicilian landscapes, or on the azure
shores of Aegean waters. From the ceiling beautiful divinities threw
garlands on the guests, who seemed surprised that the roses, unwilling to
quit Olympus, would not descend on earth. The general effect of this fair
chamber was heightened, too, by that regulation of the house which did not
permit any benches in the ball-room. That dignified assemblage who are
always found ranged in precise discipline against the wall, did not here
mar the flowing grace of the festivity. The chaperons had no cause to
complain. A large saloon abounded in ottomans and easy chairs at their
service, where their delicate charges might rest when weary, or find
distraction when not engaged.

All the world were at this fete of Sidonia. It exceeded in splendour and
luxury every entertainment that had yet been given. The highest rank, even
Princes of the blood, beauty, fashion, fame, all assembled in a
magnificent and illuminated palace, resounding with exquisite melody.

Coningsby, though somewhat depressed, was not insensible to the magic of
the scene. Since the passage in the gardens of the Luxembourg, that tone,
that glance, he had certainly felt much relieved, happier. And yet if all
were, with regard to Sidonia, as unfounded as he could possibly desire,
where was he then? Had he forgotten his grandfather, that fell look, that
voice of intense detestation? What was Millbank to him? Where, what was
the mystery? for of some he could not doubt. The Spanish parentage of
Edith had only more perplexed Coningsby. It offered no solution. There
could be no connection between a Catalan family and his mother, the
daughter of a clergyman in a midland county. That there was any
relationship between the Millbank family and his mother was contradicted
by the conviction in which he had been brought up, that his mother had no
relations; that she returned to England utterly friendless; without a
relative, a connection, an acquaintance to whom she could appeal. Her
complete forlornness was stamped upon his brain. Tender as were his years
when he was separated from her, he could yet recall the very phrases in
which she deplored her isolation; and there were numerous passages in her
letters which alluded to it. Coningsby had taken occasion to sound the
Wallingers on this subject; but he felt assured, from the manner in which
his advances were met, that they knew nothing of his mother, and
attributed the hostility of Mr. Millbank to his grandfather, solely to
political emulation and local rivalries. Still there were the portrait and
the miniature. That was a fact; a clue which ultimately, he was persuaded,
must lead to some solution.

Coningsby had met with great social success at Paris. He was at once a
favourite. The Parisian dames decided in his favour. He was a specimen of
the highest style of English beauty, which is popular in France. His air
was acknowledged as distinguished. The men also liked him; he had not
quite arrived at that age when you make enemies. The moment, therefore,
that he found himself in the saloons of Sidonia, he was accosted by many
whose notice was flattering; but his eye wandered, while he tried to be
courteous and attempted to be sprightly. Where was she? He had nearly
reached the ball-room when he met her. She was on the arm of Lord
Beaumanoir, who had made her acquaintance at Rome, and originally claimed
it as the member of a family who, as the reader may perhaps not forget,
had experienced some kindnesses from the Millbanks.

There were mutual and hearty recognitions between the young men; great
explanations where they had been, what they were doing, where they were
going. Lord Beaumanoir told Coningsby he had introduced steeple-chases at
Rome, and had parted with Sunbeam to the nephew of a Cardinal. Coningsby
securing Edith's hand for the next dance, they all moved on together to
her aunt.

Lady Wallinger was indulging in some Roman reminiscences with the
Marquess.

'And you are not going to Astrachan to-morrow?' said Edith.

'Not to-morrow,' said Coningsby.

'You know that you said once that life was too stirring in these days to
permit travel to a man?'

'I wish nothing was stirring,' said Coningsby. 'I wish nothing to change.
All that I wish is, that this fete should never end.'

'Is it possible that you can be capricious? You perplex me very much.'

'Am I capricious because I dislike change?'

'But Astrachan?'

'It was the air of the Luxembourg that reminded me of the Desert,' said
Coningsby.

Soon after this Coningsby led Edith to the dance. It was at a ball that he
had first met her at Paris, and this led to other reminiscences; all most
interesting. Coningsby was perfectly happy. All mysteries, all
difficulties, were driven from his recollection; he lived only in the
exciting and enjoyable present. Twenty-one and in love!

Some time after this, Coningsby, who was inevitably separated from Edith,
met his host.

'Where have you been, child,' said Sidonia, 'that I have not seen you for
some days? I am going to Madrid tomorrow.'

'And I must think, I suppose, of Cambridge.'

'Well, you have seen something; you will find it more profitable when you
have digested it: and you will have opportunity. That's the true spring of
wisdom: meditate over the past. Adventure and Contemplation share our
being like day and night.'

The resolute departure for England on the morrow had already changed into
a supposed necessity of thinking of returning to Cambridge. In fact,
Coningsby felt that to quit Paris and Edith was an impossibility. He
silenced the remonstrance of his conscience by the expedient of keeping a
half-term, and had no difficulty in persuading himself that a short delay
in taking his degree could not really be of the slightest consequence.

It was the hour for supper. The guests at a French ball are not seen to
advantage at this period. The custom of separating the sexes for this
refreshment, and arranging that the ladies should partake of it by
themselves, though originally founded in a feeling of consideration and
gallantry, and with the determination to secure, under all circumstances,
the convenience and comfort of the fair sex, is really, in its appearance
and its consequences, anything but European, and produces a scene which
rather reminds one of the harem of a sultan than a hall of chivalry. To
judge from the countenances of the favoured fair, they are not themselves
particularly pleased; and when their repast is over they necessarily
return to empty halls, and are deprived of the dance at the very moment
when they may feel most inclined to participate in its graceful
excitement.

These somewhat ungracious circumstances, however, were not attendant on
the festival of this night. There was opened in the Hotel of Sidonia for
the first time a banqueting-room which could contain with convenience all
the guests. It was a vast chamber of white marble, the golden panels of
the walls containing festive sculptures by Schwanthaler, relieved by
encaustic tinting. In its centre was a fountain, a group of Bacchantes
encircling Dionysos; and from this fountain, as from a star, diverged the
various tables from which sprang orange-trees in fruit and flower.

The banquet had but one fault; Coningsby was separated from Edith. The
Duchess of Grand Cairo, the beautiful wife of the heir of one of the
Imperial illustrations, had determined to appropriate Coningsby as her
cavalier for the moment. Distracted, he made his escape; but his wandering
eye could not find the object of its search; and he fell prisoner to the
charming Princess de Petitpoix, a Carlist chieftain, whose witty words
avenged the cause of fallen dynasties and a cashiered nobility.

Behold a scene brilliant in fancy, magnificent in splendour! All the
circumstances of his life at this moment were such as acted forcibly on
the imagination of Coningsby. Separated from Edith, he had still the
delight of seeing her the paragon of that bright company, the consummate
being whom he adored! and who had spoken to him in a voice sweeter than a
serenade, and had bestowed on him a glance softer than moonlight! The lord
of the palace, more distinguished even for his capacity than his boundless
treasure, was his chosen friend; gained under circumstances of romantic
interest, when the reciprocal influence of their personal qualities was
affected by no accessory knowledge of their worldly positions. He himself
was in the very bloom of youth and health; the child of a noble house,
rich for his present wants, and with a future of considerable fortunes.
Entrancing love and dazzling friendship, a high ambition and the pride of
knowledge, the consciousness of a great prosperity, the vague, daring
energies of the high pulse of twenty-one, all combined to stimulate his
sense of existence, which, as he looked around him at the beautiful
objects and listened to the delicious sounds, seemed to him a dispensation
of almost supernatural ecstasy.

About an hour after this, the ball-room still full, but the other saloons
gradually emptying, Coningsby entered a chamber which seemed deserted. Yet
he heard sounds, as it were, of earnest conversation. It was the voice
that invited his progress; he advanced another step, then suddenly
stopped. There were two individuals in the room, by whom he was unnoticed.
They were Sidonia and Miss Millbank. They were sitting on a sofa, Sidonia
holding her hand and endeavouring, as it seemed, to soothe her. Her tones
were tremulous; but the expression of her face was fond and confiding. It
was all the work of a moment. Coningsby instantly withdrew, yet could not
escape hearing an earnest request from Edith to her companion that he
would write to her.

In a few seconds Coningsby had quitted the hotel of Sidonia, and the next
day found him on his road to England.

END OF BOOK VI.




BOOK VII.


CHAPTER I.


It was one of those gorgeous and enduring sunsets that seemed to linger as
if they wished to celebrate the mid-period of the year. Perhaps the
beautiful hour of impending twilight never exercises a more effective
influence on the soul than when it descends on the aspect of some distant
and splendid city. What a contrast between the serenity and repose of our
own bosoms and the fierce passions and destructive cares girt in the walls
of that multitude whose domes and towers rise in purple lustre against the
resplendent horizon!

And yet the disturbing emotions of existence and the bitter inheritance of
humanity should exercise but a modified sway, and entail but a light
burden, within the circle of the city into which the next scene of our
history leads us. For it is the sacred city of study, of learning, and of
faith; and the declining beam is resting on the dome of the Radcliffe,
lingering on the towers of Christchurch and Magdalen, sanctifying the
spires and pinnacles of holy St. Mary's.

A young Oxonian, who had for some time been watching the city in the
sunset, from a rising ground in its vicinity, lost, as it would seem, in
meditation, suddenly rose, and looking at his watch, as if remindful of
some engagement, hastened his return at a rapid pace. He reached the High
Street as the Blenheim light post coach dashed up to the Star Hotel, with
that brilliant precision which even the New Generation can remember, and
yet which already ranks among the traditions of English manners. A
peculiar and most animating spectacle used to be the arrival of a
firstrate light coach in a country town! The small machine, crowded with
so many passengers, the foaming and curvetting leaders, the wheelers more
steady and glossy, as if they had not done their ten miles in the hour,
the triumphant bugle of the guard, and the haughty routine with which the
driver, as he reached his goal, threw his whip to the obedient ostlers in
attendance; and, not least, the staring crowd, a little awestruck, and
looking for the moment at the lowest official of the stable with
considerable respect, altogether made a picture which one recollects with
cheerfulness, and misses now in many a dreary market-town.

Our Oxonian was a young man about the middle height, and naturally of a
thoughtful expression and rather reserved mien. The general character of
his countenance was, indeed, a little stern, but it broke into an almost
bewitching smile, and a blush suffused his face, as he sprang forward and
welcomed an individual about the same age, who had jumped off the
Blenheim.

'Well, Coningsby!' he exclaimed, extending both his hands.

'By Jove! my dear Millbank, we have met at last,' said his friend.

And here we must for a moment revert to what had occurred to Coningsby
since he so suddenly quitted Paris at the beginning of the year. The wound
he had received was deep to one unused to wounds. Yet, after all, none had
outraged his feelings, no one had betrayed his hopes. He had loved one who
had loved another. Misery, but scarcely humiliation. And yet 'tis a bitter
pang under any circumstances to find another preferred to yourself. It is
about the same blow as one would probably feel if falling from a balloon.
Your Icarian flight melts into a grovelling existence, scarcely superior
to that of a sponge or a coral, or redeemed only from utter insensibility
by your frank detestation of your rival. It is quite impossible to conceal
that Coningsby had imbibed for Sidonia a certain degree of aversion,
which, in these days of exaggerated phrase, might even be described as
hatred. And Edith was so beautiful! And there had seemed between them a
sympathy so native and spontaneous, creating at once the charm of intimacy
without any of the disenchanting attributes that are occasionally its
consequence. He would recall the tones of her voice, the expression of her
soft dark eye, the airy spirit and frank graciousness, sometimes even the
flattering blush, with which she had ever welcomed one of whom she had
heard so long and so kindly. It seemed, to use a sweet and homely phrase,
that they were made for each other; the circumstances of their mutual
destinies might have combined into one enchanting fate.

And yet, had she accorded him that peerless boon, her heart, with what
aspect was he to communicate this consummation of all his hopes to his
grandfather, ask Lord Monmouth for his blessing, and the gracious favour
of an establishment for the daughter of his foe, of a man whose name was
never mentioned except to cloud his visage? Ah! what was that mystery that
connected the haughty house of Coningsby with the humble blood of the
Lancashire manufacturer? Why was the portrait of his mother beneath the
roof of Millbank? Coningsby had delicately touched upon the subject both
with Edith and the Wallingers, but the result of his inquiries only
involved the question in deeper gloom. Edith had none but maternal
relatives: more than once she had mentioned this, and the Wallingers, on
other occasions, had confirmed the remark. Coningsby had sometimes drawn
the conversation to pictures, and he would remind her with playfulness of
their first unconscious meeting in the gallery of the Rue Tronchet; then
he remembered that Mr. Millbank was fond of pictures; then he recollected
some specimens of Mr. Millbank's collection, and after touching on several
which could not excite suspicion, he came to 'a portrait, a portrait of a
lady; was it a portrait or an ideal countenance?'

Edith thought she had heard it was a portrait, but she was by no means
certain, and most assuredly was quite unacquainted with the name of the
original, if there were an original.

Coningsby addressed himself to the point with Sir Joseph. He inquired of
the uncle explicitly whether he knew anything on the subject. Sir Joseph
was of opinion that it was something that Millbank had somewhere 'picked
up.' Millbank used often to 'pick up' pictures.

Disappointed in his love, Coningsby sought refuge in the excitement of
study, and in the brooding imagination of an aspiring spirit. The softness
of his heart seemed to have quitted him for ever. He recurred to his
habitual reveries of political greatness and public distinction. And as it
ever seemed to him that no preparation could be complete for the career
which he planned for himself, he devoted himself with increased ardour to
that digestion of knowledge which converts it into wisdom. His life at
Cambridge was now a life of seclusion. With the exception of a few Eton
friends, he avoided all society. And, indeed, his acquisitions during this
term were such as few have equalled, and could only have been mastered by
a mental discipline of a severe and exalted character. At the end of the
term Coningsby took his degree, and in a few days was about to quit that
university where, on the whole, he had passed three serene and happy years
in the society of fond and faithful friends, and in ennobling pursuits. He
had many plans for his impending movements, yet none of them very mature
ones. Lord Vere wished Coningsby to visit his family in the north, and
afterwards to go to Scotland together: Coningsby was more inclined to
travel for a year. Amid this hesitation a circumstance occurred which
decided him to adopt neither of these courses.

It was Commencement, and coming out of the quadrangle of St. John's,
Coningsby came suddenly upon Sir Joseph and Lady Wallinger, who were
visiting the marvels and rarities of the university. They were alone.
Coningsby was a little embarrassed, for he could not forget the abrupt
manner in which he had parted from them; but they greeted him with so much
cordiality that he instantly recovered himself, and, turning, became their
companion. He hardly ventured to ask after Edith: at length, in a
depressed tone and a hesitating manner, he inquired whether they had
lately seen Miss Millbank. He was himself surprised at the extreme light-
heartedness which came over him the moment he heard she was in England, at
Millbank, with her family. He always very much liked Lady Wallinger, but
this morning he hung over her like a lover, lavished on her unceasing and
the most delicate attentions, seemed to exist only in the idea of making
the Wallingers enjoy and understand Cambridge; and no one else was to be
their guide at any place or under any circumstances. He told them exactly
what they were to see; how they were to see it; when they were to see it.
He told them of things which nobody did see, but which they should. He
insisted that Sir Joseph should dine with him in hall; Sir Joseph could
not think of leaving Lady Wallinger; Lady Wallinger could not think of Sir
Joseph missing an opportunity that might never offer again. Besides, they
might both join her after dinner. Except to give her husband a dinner,
Coningsby evidently intended never to leave her side.

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